A Late Riser's Miserable Breakfast

An ekphrastic poem after Carl Larsson

"A Late Riser's Miserable Breakfast", a watercolor by Carl Larsson of one of his daughters, 1897.

No matter how late the others let you sleep,
You present yourself at the table neat, 
And tidy in striped dress and blue pinafore.

Black stockings, black buttoned boots, highly shined,
Neat braids looped and tied with neat black ribbons—
picture of propriety perched upright 

At the neatly set table. Betrayed only 
By her glum expression, she sulks sadly
Over her cold and solitary breakfast. 

Unfair that while she dressed everyone else got 
Their lovely eggs hot. Now she faces cold loaf 
And tepid tea in the much-detested, 

Much-contested checkered mug. And terribly 
Unfair that her sister in her red beret
Is already slipping out to the autumn 

Garden where she can hear the shouts and play 
Of the laughing others as the glorious 
Game goes on without her. Miserable breakfast.

What is it this time? Pirates or prisoners?
Princesses of Mars? Egyptian Pharaohs’
Daughters drawing out baskets of babies?

Slaves or mummies in sarcophagi or
The burning of Joan of Arc or crowning
Of Charlemagne or stabbing of Caesar 

In the Roman forum? Or rows of rowers  
On a galley bound for sunny Palestine?
The peaches and lingonberries and flowers 

In the lidded pewter pot taunt and tease 
With promised bowers. But she resists the lure. 
Never will she eat their bread of iniquity, 

Their crusts of captivity nor meekly
Take the toast and tea. Surely if she holds 
Out They will see how unjust it all is. 

Surely the others will come running back 
In, crying that it is impossible 
To play the game, any game, without her. 

The red napkin flying under her chin
Declares that she will never surrender. 

---

I can’t remember off the top of my head if I’ve posted a Carl Larsson-inspired poem here yet. I have a bunch of them and some of them I’ve published on my old blog and some of them have never been published. And I also have a lot of scribbled notes that are not-quite-poems yet.

I adore Larsson’s beautiful paintings and drawings, especially those that depict his family, a big bustling beautiful family in the beautiful home that his wife, also an artist, Karin Larsson curated.

I wrote a first draft of this poem back in 2019 and it was recently asking to be dusted off and polished up.

My house has always been much more chaotic than the serene images of the Larsson home. Though I suspect that with so many children the Larsson, too, saw their share of chaos. My daughters were never quite this put together and breakfast was never so formal a meal. But with three long-haired daughters I have plaited my share of braids. And I have bestowed on this girl and her siblings some of the games my own children have played over the years. This poem is as much a tribute to my children and their beautiful imaginative games as it is to Larsson’s beautiful painting.